the Poli chronicles, continued

As I've mentioned in the past, Joanne and I are loyal (to the point of obsessive) regulars at a magical little wonderland on the corner of General Pardinas and Hermosilla called Casa Poli. Its charm, internationally renowned cuisine, and overall atmosphere have had us hooked from day one. Well, in reality it's probably just a matter of convenience, as it's right on the corner. It doesn't hurt that the waiters are in love with us. Its charm is provided by our pals the waiters (and yes, we are on a first name basis with Fernande, Joaquin, and Rafa...). The forementioned five star cuisine refers to the cheap coffee and the occasional tortilla sandwich that, when we're too lazy to cook (in the case of Joanne) or too lazy to even go to the grocery store (that'd be me), we order 'to go' to then eat while watching some dubbed Simpsons fun. And finally, the captivating atmosphere is provided by the eclectic mix of patrons (we like to call them 'bichos') who frequent the establishment and provide us with occasional entertainment.

The Poli crowd can be basically divided into two groups, each group contributing profoundly to our beloved cafe. First, there is a group of people who, along with us (we compose the entire young female population of Poli consumers... young being anyone under 50), are placed under the title of 'regulars.' They're mainly apartment building porters, construction-type workers, the Chinese guy who works at the dollar (well, euro?) store down the street, and an old man who sits in there drinking and barking out orders all day. After the regulars, there are the rest. Slews of randoms. It's a mix of students, middle-aged women who don't take off their sunglasses, and a few random businessmen who are obviously lost enough to stoop down to the Poli level (which is, coincidentally, OUR level).

Today was our second encounter with the absolute randomest of the randoms. To begin, he meows... and yes I do mean meow like a cat. All I can think of is Super Troopers, except in the movie it was done as a joke. The lightbulb in this man's head, on the other hand, is obviously burnt out or switched indefinitely to the off position. He walks into Poli, sits down on a stool, and meows at the waiters. To demonstrate, a typical 30 second span of his feline monologue goes a lil something like this:

Meow
(Silence)
Meow
(Silence)
Meow.. meow-meow
(Silence)
Meow- (yells) Hay paella?
(waiter nods and scoops him a little plate of paella)
Meow

Ya'll probably think I'm joking. I'm not. But today was special day: we had the pleasure of sitting next to him. Actually let me correct myself. JOANNE had the distinct pleasure, opportunity, and dream come true of sitting beside this intriguing character (intriguing = we don't think his parents socialized him as a youngster). I unfortunately had to watch from afar... woe is me?

Ok, not that we necessarily judge people by their appearances or mannerisms (that's a lie), but when he sat in the stool to Joanne's right, both Joanne and I instinctively scooted towards our left. Then, having meowed a few times and received his plate of paella, there was momentarily nothing of interest to tell. He was eating his paella, Mo-Jo and I were sipping our coffees, regular conversation resumed, and all was well and peaceful in Poli-land. ANNNND THEN..

All of a sudden, he of the cat-call put down his fork and started eating the rice and picking at the shellfish in the paella with his fingers. I have no doubt that the shellfish are probably tricky to eat with one's fork and that there is therefore some sort of delicate way to get at the meat inside. This man clearly did not possess this technique. I couldn't look at Joanne in the face because over her right shoulder all I could see was this man shoving food into his mouth and picking at crab parts. It was actually making me feel vaguely ill. ANNNND THEN..

The meow man got off his stool and stood up. We thought he was leaving and breathed a sigh of relief. Ohh no no.. how very mistaken we were. He proceeds to continue to pick at the shellfish, but now he's eating them whole, then pulling out the hard parts and hurling them at the floor. He was like a rapid gumball machine (or a machine gun, in the PG-13 rated version..) of shellfish parts. Except he wasn't just throwing them to the floor, but rather throwing them at the floor below Joanne's feet. Joanne grew quiet and then turned and said to me in English (as if talking to him), 'excuse me sir, but it seems that your crustaceans are hitting my shoes.' So this continues for about a minute, random crab parts being plucked from this man's mouth by food-covered hands and then, to her chagrin, chucked at Joanne's shoes. There was absolutely no way that this could get any better. ANNNND THEN..

The same man meows a few more times and orders a sandwich. We, therefore, decide to leave before he starts in on the festivities that the 2nd course of his meal was sure to be. But as we're waiting to pay, he reaches exaggeratedly across Joanne to the napkin holder that is sitting between Joanne and I. Before our widened, horrified eyes, he grabs somewhere in the vacinity of 800 napkins... and in the process smears paella (yes.. the paella that had been caked to his fingers), all over said holder. We meekly left our money on the counter and left.

Just your typical 25 minute Casa Poli coffee break, really...